Golden Hour
by Tallulah99
Summary: Three weeks before the guys take their trip to Barafundle Bay, James has one last request. "I needed this; to feel, to forget, to remember what it's like to hold life between my hands." Warning: sexual themes/language. James/Female OC


**Golden Hour**

By: Tallulah

"Please, Davy."

Davy's looking at me like I've lost my mind, and maybe I have, I don't know. Maybe it's not that important in the grand scheme of things, but then again, maybe it's everything. A dying man's wish? How do you say no?

I know he won't, anyway; say no, that is. It's on his face, the grudging willingness to do what I'm requesting. There's little Davy won't do for me these days. This is neither the most disgusting nor the strangest request I've had to make of him in the past few months. I don't mean to take advantage, but in so many ways, I've come to depend on him – _require_ him. I'm grateful for everything he's done and I know my parents are too.

I'm okay with the neediness now. I wasn't at first. When things started to get bad, when the cancer started to get bad and my body first started to rebel, I wasn't so accepting. I would tie my own shoes, goddammit. I refused to be coddled, refused to be an invalid. And then Davy pointed out that I _was_ an invalid and that saying a thing isn't a thing doesn't make it stop being a thing, so shut the fuck up and let him tie my shoes already.

Ah, Davy. What would I do without him? Even more pressing of an issue, what will he do without me?

I can see it on his face the moment he caves in. He's got this way of pulling his mouth off to the side when he's come to a decision he's not altogether happy about.

"I know it's mental," I say, encouragingly. "Humor me."

"Your mum'll kill me if she finds out what kind of 'humoring' I'm doing here," he grouses, but his heart's not in it. I wonder if he's even noticed that he's agreed to do it.

"Far be it for me to give you advice, mate," I say. I'm breathing heavily though all I've done is turn around sideways on the sofa. Goddamn this cancer. "But if I were you, I think I'd keep this particular bit of tender mercy under my hat."

"Oh, Jesus, James." He throws his hands up in the air and stomps off. I know he'll be back. It'll be time for my next round of meds soon.

Right now I'm in the golden hour. That's what I think of it as, the golden hour. That's the point where the meds have worn off a bit and I can think a little straighter, but the pain hasn't gotten so bad that all I'm thinking about is pain. It's a narrow window and getting narrower by the day. I know it won't be too long before it's a gap and then a sliver and then, when that's gone, it'll be a constant wash of meds and pain in a never-ending cycle. James won't be inside looking out anymore after that. It'll be some poor bastard's body that hasn't had the sense to stop moving even though the soul's long gone.

The soul. Well, who can get a terminal cancer diagnosis and not think about _that_.

I don't know. I know what sounds beautiful, what's accepted by some and theorized about by others. In the end, I don't think it much matters. It's me. It's who I am, the _James_ that exists inside this Anaplastic Rhabdomyosarcoma-riddled shell. If I take my last breath and the _me_ part winks out of existence forever, well, what will I care? If, instead, I'm cut loose from this body – and born again, or if I just float away among the stars, I think I'll probably be okay with that too. It's a lonely journey, but it's one that everybody has to take eventually. I'm waiting to see what's behind the curtain, like everybody else. I just got seats to an earlier show than what I expected.

Sure enough, in twenty minutes or so, Davy comes stomping back in the room. This time he's armed with my pain meds and a determined grimace.

I take the meds meekly. No pissing and moaning this time. No bitching about the taste or the side-effects. I'll be feeling sleepy soon. The golden hour is ending for another round, infinitesimally shorter than it was last time.

"All right, you tosser," he says, resigned. "I'll do it. They can dig a grave right next to yours for me if your mum ever finds out." He pauses as if considering something for the first time. "Or mine. Shit."

I chuckle and quirk a lopsided smile. Ah, Davy. "Thank you," I say, meaning it.

It's a strange request, I know. I'd say 'one for the books', but I'm pretty confident Davy isn't going to be telling anyone about this. He's right, my mum would raise seven kinds of hell. So would his.

The morphine kicks in fast, and I'm thankful as the pain eases, but I almost want to wave goodbye to myself as my mind goes hazy and my thoughts scatter. Eventually, I sleep.

I wake up in my bed and know that there's a whole piece of my day missing. Fucking morphine. I hate it and love it. I hate that I love it.

It's late. Two years ago, if I'd slept all day and woke up at midnight, I'd be fucked. There'd be no way to fall back asleep again after having just clocked eight hours of unconsciousness. Now, I know I'll only be awake long enough for the next round of meds to kick in and then off I'll go until morning.

It's not much of a life anymore.

Sometimes Davy stays over on the sofa and takes the night shift too, but tonight it's mum that comes in and lays a cool hand on my face as I take my next round of oblivion.

"G'nite, James," she says as she gets up to go. Her voice is soft. I can tell she thinks I'm more asleep than I am. I spare her the knowledge that I'm awake enough to see her pain. She kisses my forehead and then gently wipes away the tear that falls on my brow and rolls towards my hair.

* * *

Davy's face is the first thing I see when I wake up. He looks furtive, which I can't help but find funny with the sun streaming through his hair. It's the bright light of a glorious spring day.

"Can you help me outside?" I ask. He wants to talk to me. I won't even pretend it's not about my shocking request from the night before.

I actually feel pretty good this morning. Some days are better than others. I'm grateful for all the some days.

Once I'm dressed and have my cane under me, Davy walks out with me, bearing breakfast like a valet. I let the joke go without comment. He likes to be needed, but he doesn't much like to be teased about it. I settle for a heartfelt 'Thanks, mate' as he sets out my breakfast and, of course, my next round of meds.

"I get to pick," he says abruptly.

I raise an eyebrow at him over my tea.

"Shut up, James," he says irritably. "I know well enough what you like. I'll pick. I want to make sure-" He trails off and looks around.

"Mum and Dad are in the kitchen," I say, correctly guessing his concerns.

"Right." He lowers his voice and goes on. "I know well enough what you like. I want to make sure everything's _okay_."

"You worried I might get sick?" I ask with a perfectly straight face.

He slouches back in his chair and gives me a disgusted look. "I can't believe I'm going to do this for you, you absolute tosser."

I smile and eat my breakfast.

* * *

Three days later, it's Sunday. Mum and Dad have agreed to go up to Aunt Lucy's house for the day. It's sort of an enforced respite for them and for me. I know they love me, and they'd sit by my bedside all day long if I let them, but I think maybe the only thing worse than watching someone die is watching someone watch _you_ die. They need a break and so do I.

Davy's been cagey, but muttered something encouraging about going out today after Mum and Dad leave to 'get that thing we talked about'. Then he turned red and stomped out of the room again.

I'm resting in my room when Mum comes in to say goodbye.

"We'll be home by seven, love," she says. She fusses with my blankets and smoothes my hair then she kisses me on the cheek and taps the end of my nose with her index finger. "For luck," she says with a smile, and I wonder for a bewildered second if Davy has told her what he's doing today, but then I realize she's just harkening back to something she used to do when I was a boy. I bet it's been twenty years since the last time she did that. It makes me smile.

The house is silent for a bit and I doze. Davy is supposed to be back by one, and I'm working my pain meds around a schedule today. It wouldn't do to be completely out of it when he gets here.

I'm still feeling pretty good when I hear the front door open, then hear the voices. I feel a quick jolt of adrenaline and realize I'm nervous.

Davy pops his head around the corner. "All right, mate. I am _not_ sticking around for this. You're on your own. Try not to…I don't know, _tax_ yourself too much." The distasteful expression on his face is almost comical.

"Cheers," I say, but my voice is shaking and he notices.

With a quick glance out into the hall, he comes the rest of the way into the room and sits next to me on the bed with his eyes narrowed. "You alright, then?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," I reply, but I am trembling slightly and frankly, it's embarrassing.

"You want to not do this today? Reschedule, maybe?"

I can't help but laugh at the idea of everyone whipping out their calendars and trying to settle on another suitable day for something like this. "No. Today is good. I'm just – " I trail off.

"You nervous?" He doesn't sound amused, for which I am thankful.

I nod and blow out a shaky breath. "It's been awhile, you know? And never like –" I gesture towards the hallway.

"Yeah," he says, nodding. "I understand." He stands and claps a hand to my shoulder. "Text me when you're, – uh, ready for me to come back."

He's at the door before I stop him again. "Does she know?" I ask. "Did you tell her anything?"

"Yeah, she knows," he says. "Well, a bit, anyway. I left it for you to fill in the details." He raises his eyebrows and gives me a questioning look.

I take a deep breath and nod and then he's gone.

Five seconds pass, and then ten. I make it to twenty-five before she walks into the room.

Davy was right. He does know what I like.

She's lovely.

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest and I wonder for a moment what the hell I was thinking. How absurd is this? Maybe I really am losing my mind.

"My name's Amanda," she says.

Her voice is lovely too. It's low, but she's not trying to sound sultry. It's nothing artificial. She has long golden brown hair that's swept back away from her face and pinned in place. She is both exactly what I wanted and not at all what I expected.

I can see her studying me, though not unkindly. She looks curious. She has an intelligent face, with sharp green eyes and a small pointed nose. She can't be more than twenty-three.

"I'm James," I finally remember to say and she smiles, a little lopsided twist of her lips.

"I had a feeling you might be." She comes more fully into the room, not bothering to hide her interest as she looks around.

There's not much to see. This is the room I grew up in, but it did a stint as a guest room after I moved out and went to university. Really, I guess it's a guest room again. There's not much left of what made it mine.

"Do you mind if I sit?" she asks, pointing at the chair next to my bed.

"Oh, of course," I say and slowly sit forward. "I'm sorry. I can stand up. I just wasn't –"

"No." She shakes her head and smiles. "This is fine. I'll sit. We'll talk for a bit, and then if you want to get up, you can."

I nod and lean back again, watching her. "You'll have to forgive me. I've never really done anything like this before. I don't really know –" I gesture awkwardly.

"Don't worry, James. There aren't any rules. It's just you and me." She adds "No pressure," and smiles so widely that her eyes light up.

I chuckle in appreciation. Davy did well. He'll be a smug bastard after this.

"Tell me about yourself," she says, leaning forward so that she is close enough to touch.

"What do you want to know?"

"What do you want to tell me?"

"I'm dying," I say and then feel like an idiot. A flicker of something crosses her face, but she doesn't frown or make sympathetic noises.

"I'm sorry," she says, simply, and I appreciate her lack of pity. "Do you want to tell me more?"

"It's cancer," I say. "Rhabdomyosarcoma. But no, I don't really want to talk about it."

"I bet," she says and gives me a wistful half smile. She reaches out and takes my hand, not in any particular way, just as though she wants to be holding it.

I look down at my pale, thin hand in her soft pink ones and notice that she isn't wearing nail polish. Her nails are short and well-shaped, but bare.

It hadn't especially occurred to me before to notice what she was wearing, but I do now and realize that she doesn't seem at all dressed for the part. She looks downright elegant in her simple shift dress and sandals. Her hair and makeup are subtle and becoming. She looks like a college student on spring break, not a prostitute.

She sees me working through this in my head and quirks that little half smile that I already feel like I recognize. She doesn't say anything though. She just waits.

"Who are you?" I ask finally.

"My name is Amanda," she reminds me, with that smile. "I'm twenty-two and I'm studying graphic design at university." Then she shrugs genially. "It pays the bills; don't judge."

I laugh out loud at that. "As though I could."

"Many would anyway."

That brings me up short, but her face is placid. "Yeah," I say, nodding. "Many would."

"What do you want to tell me about you, James?" she asks. She sits back in her seat, but keeps my hand with her. She's stroking it gently, almost unconsciously, and it feels wonderful.

"I played rugby at university."

"It's a wonder you've kept your kept rugged good looks then. What else?"

I realize absurdly that I want to impress her. "I'm a writer," I say and then I immediately want to take it back.

"What do you like to write?" She skips all the obvious questions, and I love her just a little bit for that.

"I was going to be the next big thing in literary fiction," I say with a self-deprecating smile.

She nods. There are no meaningless platitudes or attempts at sympathy. It's the most freeing thing I've experienced in a long time.

After that I just can't shut up. I tell her everything about myself. She listens with good grace, asking questions here and there and other times just letting me ramble. I wonder if sometimes people hire prostitutes just to have someone to talk to. If NHS ever starts covering it, psychiatry will be on its way out.

Potential life just seems to come off of her in waves. I have a flash of what her life will be like ten – twenty years from now and I find that I can actually _see_ it. I wonder if she'll ever think of me years from now. If that sad, dying man she once spent a day with will ever cross her mind when she's married and has children of her own. I hope so. I hope in that one little way, I'll still be alive in the minds of someone other than my family and my friends.

I have no idea how long she sits there holding my hand as we talk. Abruptly, she asks, "Can I come and sit next to you? I'm getting a terrible crick in my neck."

I stammer like a fool, but she just smiles and climbs up on the bed. She kicks off her sandals, and then settles down next to me with her back against the headboard, smoothing down the skirt of her dress before she reaches for my hand again.

I don't know if it's her proximity or the fact that there's a woman in my bed for the first time in over two years, but I'm back to being nervous again. I'm sure she notices – she's the one holding my sweaty hand, after all – but she doesn't comment on it. Instead she asks me more questions.

She's easy to talk to, and my anxiety ebbs away again in short order. It helps that she's beside me and I'm not looking at her while I talk. I can feel her eyes on me, though, and I'm a little afraid of what she must see when she looks at me. Is it ever possible to get past the fact that the person next to you is dying?

We talk about a little bit of everything, except, of course, for the nearly unpronounceable elephant in the room. I don't bring it up again, and she doesn't ask. Instead we cover books and movies, compare places we've traveled to; she's been to California, but has never seen Norway. Both of us have been to Greece. Neither of us has made it to Egypt. She asks about the massive print of stars that hangs on the slanted wall above us, so I slide down until I am laying flat on my back and tug her down next to me. I point out the Milky Way, the Pleiades and the stars that make up Cassiopeia. She asks me which is my favorite, and I show her how to find Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka, the stars that make up Orion's belt.

She's laying with her head half on my chest and half on a pillow, listening attentively with one elegant hand lying across my sternum. Gently she begins to stroke my chest with just the tips of her fingers. It's lovely. I don't really know how to tell her what I need to tell her, but I guess it's as good a time as any and any way is better than no way.

"Listen," I say, feeling awkward. "I really ought to tell you that I, uh, I can't actually – I'm not able to…you know."

"Oh?" she looks surprised, but not taken aback. Her fingers continue to trace up and down my chest. "Is it because of the –"

"It's the meds," I admit. "Morphine."

"But you have done it _before_?"

I laugh. "Yes, but it's been some time ago. I broke up with Cecily when I found out I was sick, so that was…two years ago, I guess? Something like that."

Her fingers stop moving for a moment and she looks up at me. "You broke up with your girlfriend so she wouldn't have to watch you go through this?"

I nod. "Don't think I was being all magnanimous or anything. It wasn't like we were headed to the altar. We had fun together, but she's not the kind of girl you go through something like this with." I hesitate and then add, "For her sake and mine."

Amanda kisses me then. Full on the lips, her eyes closed and fingers curled into my shirt. I can't do much, but I can do this. I kiss her back, savoring the softness of her mouth over mine, the sweetness of her breath and then the warmth of her tongue as she eases it past my lips.

God, it's been so long I almost don't remember what to do. But she's patient and, slowly, it comes back to me.

For a little while, at least, I lose myself in Amanda. She is gentle and thorough, and I allow myself to enjoy the pretty fiction that she desires me.

I roll onto my side, and she obligingly shifts to her back so that I can look down at her. She isn't smiling, but her eyes sparkle and she's looking straight at me. I prop myself up on one arm and sweep her hair off to the side so that I can kiss the curve of her neck. She sighs and buries her fingers in the back of my hair just where it curls, holding me close. It's bliss.

I explore her face thoroughly with my hands and lips, memorizing the soft contours of her jaw, her brow, the tiny scar at the corner of her mouth. Her lips are extraordinary and she closes her eyes as I trace them, first with a finger, and then my tongue.

She sucks in a breath and I capture it with my lips, kissing her with everything I have. Oh, I needed this; to feel, to forget, to remember what it's like to hold life between my hands.

I'm a little breathless and pause for a moment, looking down at her. "You're not what I expected," I say.

"Neither are you," she replies.

I'm not sure I've ever loved anything as much as I love that little half smile.

"What do you want, James?" She's looking up at me, threading her fingers through my hair again. "What can I give you?"

I can feel my pulse ratchet up and am absurdly pleased that I am still capable of this feeling. The morphine hasn't stolen everything from me yet.

"I'd like very much to touch you," I say. I can't look her in the eye as I say it.

"I'd like that," she says and her eyes are sincere.

She slides off of the bed and pulls her dress over her head in one smooth motion. Beneath, she is wearing simple panties and a bra. They're cream colored and made of some silky material, nothing elaborate or designed for enticement. I'm glad. She wouldn't have needed it anyway. Her skin is rosy in the glow of the sunlight and my breath catches in my throat as I look at her. She slides the clips out of her hair so that it falls loose around her shoulders and then she smiles at me.

I have the sudden inane desire to ring Davy and just yell 'Thank you!' into the phone.

She climbs back on the bed and lies facing me across a few inches of pillow. I can feel the warmth coming off of her and it seems to heat my body too. My breath is coming short, and I reach for her because I'll die if I don't.

Her skin is softer than I even imagined. It's been so long since I've touched a woman like this – that it's almost too much, and my hand shakes. I trail my knuckles down her arm, raising goose bumps. She shivers and closes her eyes and I feel a surge of triumph that I've given her some tiny amount of pleasure.

"Please," I say, and then I have to swallow; my throat is dry. "Please, lay on your back."

She complies without comment, but she's watching me still, her honey-colored hair spread out across my pillow like a halo.

I have to overcome my reserve. All the women I've been with before were there because they wanted to be, and this is a strange bridge to cross. Amanda is here because I want her to be, but it's an awkward adjustment.

She sees my hesitation and reaches across the divide for me. She takes my hand and places it on her chest, so that my fingers just graze the ridge of her collar bone. "Touch me, James," she says softly. "I want you to." Her hand covers mine, still guiding my nerveless fingers. She moves lower, covering her breast with my hand trapped between hers and the slick material of her bra. I can feel the hard bud of her nipple under my palm, and I'm pretty sure the moan I hear is my own.

I am shaking in earnest now, and hard. God, I'm so hard. I can't remember the last time I had an erection. I hadn't thought it was still possible. My body is reacting to her, not just my mind, and I nearly weep at the unsubtle reminder that this was once a man's body, capable of pleasuring and taking pleasure in a woman.

Amanda's eyes are heavy-lidded. She releases my hand and reaches for the clasp of her bra, tossing it aside as she frees her breasts. I let my breath out all in a great whoosh and she smiles. "Now, touch me, James."

And I do. God help me, I couldn't have resisted the urge to worship her body then if my own parents had come back into the room.

I touch all of her, not just the gentle swell of her breasts, but her wrists, her thighs, the indentation at the back of her knees, the curve of her waist, her belly button – that makes her laugh and convulse under my touch, the hollow at the base of her throat, the thin skin on the inside of her arms, everywhere. I paint her with my hands, and taste her, and breathe in her scent. I can smell her arousal and it's a victory. She's panting and her eyes are unfocused and I'm so proud it's visceral.

I lower my head and take her nipple into my mouth, reveling in the tiny sounds she doesn't seem to realize she's making.

With my free hand I cover her other breast and then drift lower, brushing my palm across the flat plane of her belly until I get to the silky edge of her panties. I dip my fingers below the waistband and she startles beneath me.

"James," she says. "You don't have to –"

"Please", I say, breathing the word against the damp skin of her breast. "Please. This is what I want." And it is.

She regards me seriously for a moment and then nods and relaxes beneath my touch. Finally, she lets out a breath and her eyes flutter closed.

My fingers slide into her wet heat and I shudder as she arches beneath me with a gasp.

I'm almost certain I hear her say my name.

I ache and I can't tell if it's because I need my meds or because of the wanting. I don't care and it doesn't matter. Her wetness covering my fingers is the only thing I care about right now. The soft skin of her belly under my cheek and her heaving chest, her fingers twined in my hair, her gentle, gasping breaths; these are the only things that exist at this moment.

I move my hand slowly, watching her flex her hips to meet my fingers. It's the most beautiful, primal thing I can imagine and I watch her with hungry eyes. I lift my head and rest my weight on my arm so that I can see her face. She has her head tilted back and her eyes closed. Her lips are parted and fine beads of sweat stand out on her brow. My God.

I duck my head and taste her breasts, never ceasing the steady motion of my hand. I can feel her heart thudding in her chest, and hear her rapid breathing. Right now I'm not 'that poor boy, James, the one with cancer' – I'm the man that's giving this woman pleasure. It's a powerful feeling, and that's not something I get to experience much these days.

Her hands are grasping at me, the force of her hips growing erratic. She's cresting the wave and I want to watch her as she falls over the other side. I increase the pressure of my fingers and move faster.

"James!" her voice is breathy and desperate and I want to be able to fuck her so badly it brings tears to my eyes.

"Come for me, Amanda," I say, blinking away salt water. "Please, let me watch you come."

Her body goes still, tight around my fingers, her back bowed off the bed, her mouth open in a silent cry as she crashes to her completion, and it's exactly what I wanted, exactly what I needed.

When she finally opens her eyes again, I am smiling down at her. It's an honest smile, one of the few I've mustered in recent months. I'm starting to hurt again, but for this moment my smug satisfaction is enough to carry me a little further.

"Wow," she says, wide-eyed and then she laughs and rolls towards me and presses herself along my length, sharing the heat of her exertion. She kisses me, and then pulls away with a slightly puzzled expression. "I didn't think you could – "

I close my eyes and roll onto my back. I can practically see the golden hour coming to a close. Goddammit.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"No," I say, "No, don't be sorry. " I cover my eyes with my hand, not relishing the idea of letting her see the pain on my face. "It's the meds. The fucking meds." I pound a fist into the mattress and then laugh, bitterly. "Can't live with 'em, can't function without 'em. Fuck." I raise up, looking for the bottle I know Davy left on my dresser.

"James." Amanda's voice is gentle, but, bless her, there is still no pity there.

She's sitting up next to me, completely unself-conscious of her gloriously flushed, naked body.

"How long?" she asks. She's already reaching for the buttons on my shirt, bearing me gently back down to the mattress.

"How long?"

"Until it's too much to stand." She finishes the last two buttons and pushes my shirt open, her hands spreading across my chest. "How long can you wait until you have to take it?"

I'm honestly baffled until she reaches down and cups me through the thin fabric of my pants. I react on an animal level, thrusting up into her hand and gasping. Two years is a long time to go without the intimate touch of a woman. "I don't know," I say, honestly, but I'm thinking it won't be long. I'm still hard; my body still yearning for her, but soon the pain will be too much. This dull ache will turn into wildfire and I'll be mindless with need, not for her, but for the bottle of morphine on the other side of the room.

There's that smile again. "Then I'd better not waste any more time."

She doesn't.

The only thing she stops to do is help me pull my pants down over my hips. I see her wince at the size of the bandage that covers the wound on my hip, but she doesn't comment.

I'm laying on my bed, naked from the waist down, my shirt pushed apart and she's floating over me like something out of a dream. She's careful, so gentle, with me. She straddles my waist, making sure she's nowhere near the ugly square of cotton that covers my rhabdo mutilated flesh. She puts me inside her with clever fingers and eases down so slowly that I think I might lose my mind.

The pain's there, distant, but waiting for me. I close my eyes and focus on her instead, blocking out the ache in my bones in favor of the paradise of her body wrapped around mine. This was a joy I'd thought I was beyond, an unexpected oasis of mercy in a desert of pain and hated medicines. This was living, and not dying, for now, just for now.

I think suddenly of the box of condoms that Davy had wordlessly chucked in my nightstand drawer the day before.

"Amanda," I say, before the thought vanishes. I reluctantly loosen a hand from the lush swell of her hips and try to point at the drawer. "I have – "

"Shh," she says and purposefully places my hand back on her body, rising over me once more.

"Are you – do you – are you on birth control?" It feels like it should be a stupid question, but I know, if she doesn't, that this may be the one part of my anatomy that my treatment plan didn't completely destroy.

"No, James," she says. Her hand caresses my cheek, gently. "Shh, now. Don't worry. It's okay."

For a brief second I have this ridiculous flash of fear that if I do this, if I give into the feeling that's begun to rise up, if I spill myself inside her, that I might give her my cancer. I'd laugh at the idea of cancer as an STI if she weren't looking down at me with those eyes.

"Do this for me," she says. "Please." Her voice is soft, but insistent, demanding. She rises and falls, riding me oh so gently, and it's the most overwhelming pleasure I have ever experienced. It's no contest, really. I don't have the strength, physical or otherwise, to stop her. I couldn't stem the tide rising in me now if what was left of my life depended on it.

I can't thrust, at least not much, but it doesn't matter. She can tell I'm close and she does the work for me. She lifts and settles, rocking her hips, taking me deeper into her welcoming heat until the world goes white and, with a cry, I lose myself entirely and come, shuddering, for the last time.

When the haze of completion passes, the pain is there waiting for me, but so is Amanda. She's by my bed, still naked, the bottle of morphine held out to me with that smile. "Care for a cocktail?"

I wish I could laugh, but I reach for it a bit desperately with my hands shaking. She stops me and unscrews the cap, helping to support my head while I drink. I don't want oblivion just now so I try to go easy.

I hand the bottle back to her and sag back on the bed. This is the worst part, waiting for my wretched body to process the drugs. I don't actually notice for several minutes that Amanda has gotten back into bed and is wrapped loosely around me, touching as much of me as she can without putting any of her weight on me.

As the edge comes off the pain, I find that I can enjoy this. It's nearly as heavenly to have her wrapped around me as it was to be inside her. I think that maybe I needed this part more than the other.

I turn my head so that I'm speaking into the fragrant curtain of her hair on the pillow next to me. "Thank you," I whisper.

She doesn't reply. I wonder for a moment if she's fallen asleep, but when I look down at her, her eyes are open. She's staring up at the stars again. "I wish I'd met you sooner," she says.

I chuckle and shift so that I can bring her closer. I wrap my arms around her shoulders and stroke the damp skin of her back. I love the feeling of her hair brushing my bare chest. "You wouldn't have been nearly so taken with me back then," I say, certain that it's true.

She's silent again for a while, and I wonder what the time is getting to. I want, more than anything, to stay here, wrapped up in this woman's arms, forever if possible, but the reasonable side of my mind reminds me that Davy's expecting a text and that my parents aren't going to stay gone all day.

"We have almost an hour," she says as if reading my mind. "Unless you'd like me to go so you can rest?"

"No –," I say too loudly and then chuckle. "That was meant to sound much more nonchalant than it did."

I can feel her vibrate with her own suppressed laugh. "I prefer the honesty, actually. I get tired of artifice."

"So do I."

She rolls onto her elbows so that she can look me in the face. Her eyes are serious. "Are you frightened?"

I have to think for a moment. Fear has become such an integral part of my life – fear of death, fear of pain, fear of loss – it all kind of blurs together into one endless, gut-churning horror, but right now? "No," I say. "Sometimes I am, but not right now."

She nods and reaches up to touch my face, her gaze intent as if she's committing me to memory. I hope she is. I hope she remembers me. Somehow, I know she will.

I could be deluding myself, of course. Doesn't every man want to be the one that makes an impression? Maybe it's a consolation prize from the universe for the rest of the shitty hand I've been dealt, but somehow, someway I know; I've made as big a mark on her life as she has on mine. And that's an incredible gift.

"Thank you for not treating me like I'm pitiful."

She leans over and kisses me again, on my brow and then my lips. Her eyes are inches from mine, a green so vivid they're like emeralds. "You're dying," she says, brushing my hair away from my face. "That doesn't make you pitiful. That makes you human."

* * *

By the time Davy arrives, she's dressed and freshened up and looks as put-together now as she did when she walked in five hours ago.

He knocks softly on the door and eases it open at my invitation. There's a wide, curious expression on his face, but at least he's got the sense not to say anything.

I'm standing, leaning heavily on my cane. She helped me get my pants and shirt reassembled, but I can still feel her all over me like a second skin. It's a sensation I'll cling to for as long as I can.

Amanda is slipping her sandals back on and I want her to stay so badly I think my heart might pound straight out of my chest. I don't say anything though. Even if I could, it makes no sense to invite her into my life now. If I asked, if I said, 'Please come back tomorrow,' I think she would, but all I would be doing is forcing misery on her later and that's no kindness.

There's no trace of sadness on her face when she turns to me to say goodbye. It's there, it's in her eyes, but she wants her smile to be the last thing I see and it fills me with warmth. I touch her face again, smoothing my hand across her cheek. She closes her eyes and tilts her face toward me. I kiss her again, but softly, tenderly, trying to say thank you without having to put it to words. She's given me more than just her body today, she's given me back part of my soul and I think it's enough to see me through to the end.

The emptiness I feel at her departure leaves a hollow place in my chest.

I should lie down, but I'm filled with restless energy. I move aimlessly around the house until my parents come home and then I retreat back to my room and collapse back on my bed. I need solitude for a while longer. I'm breathing heavily, but it takes a moment for me to realize that I can still smell her.

Turning, I bury my face in my pillow and yes, there it is: the fresh, sweet scent of her hair. I picture her lying next to me, her eyes bright and smiling up at me and then I smile myself, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes as I fall asleep.

* * *

Davy's helping me clean up the room later, switching out the sheets so mom won't have to. He doesn't say anything when I ask him to leave the pillowcases on. I hear him make an odd noise and look up from my reverie.

"What's that?" I ask.

"You didn't use a condom?" he says, accusatory.

He's shaking my bedsheet at me and the absurdity of it makes me laugh until I can hardly breathe. "You're joking, right?"

"No, I'm not joking, James. What if –" and then he breaks off with a shocked expression and realizes what he's saying. "Oh, fucking hell." His tone is matter of fact. He balls up the sheets and stomps out of my room yet again.

* * *

Three weeks later it's my birthday and the car is packed up for our last trip to Barafundle. It's me and Davy and Bill and Miles and I wish I could say it was going to be just like old times, but I know it's not.

He's not thinking when he says it. Bill has never been one for tact. "I suppose, one day, we'll live on in our kids," he pontificates as we lie around the campfire that night. The haze of pot smoke blurs both the crystal night sky above us and the sharp edges of our minds.

I don't know if the others even caught it. I hope not. I don't want them to feel guilty. I'm tired of people feeling sorry for me. It's a bit of a blessing when someone forgets I'm sick and talks of normal things.

I think of her, suddenly, of that half smile and those flashing green eyes. With my eyes closed, I can almost see her, months from now, with a rounded belly and the distant look of a woman whose life has turned inward. He'll have her eyes, but my dark hair, and it will curl, like mine. He'll hate it, like I did, but she'll keep it long and tousle his head when she walks by just to run her fingers through it. She'll think of me sometimes, of what the dying man who fathered her child might have been like. She'll wonder about me and she'll love my son. And what more could I ask for than that?

A tear slips free from my closed lids, but it's not sadness this time. I think – I'm almost positive – that she'll call him James.

* * *

**A/N:** Like so many before me, _Third Star_ got into my head and refused to leave. This was meant to be an exorcism of sorts, but I'm not sure that it didn't embed James even more indelibly in my mind than he already was.

This whole thing was inspired by Bill's gut-wrenching line, 'I suppose, one day, we'll live on in our kids'. Once struck with the idea, I sat down and wrote it in less than 36 hours.

"So I raise a morphine toast to you all. And, if you happen to remember that it's the anniversary of my birth, remember that you were loved by me. And that you made my life a happy one, and there's no tragedy in that."


End file.
